


I wanna be a bottle blonde (I don't know why but I feel conned)

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa Zero, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, Dangan Ronpa Zero Spoilers, F/F, F/M, Homelessness, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Let's see if I can make y'all for bad for the queen of hell herself, No Proof Reading we die like Men, even though Junkos a dick. We only partially apreciate her, heather references what Heather references, in this house we love and apreciate the despair twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-01-27 13:35:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: I wish I wasn't such a narcissistI wish I didn't really kissThe mirror when I'm on my ownOh God, I'm gonna die alone(Or; mukuro bleaches her sisters hair.)





	I wanna be a bottle blonde (I don't know why but I feel conned)

**Author's Note:**

> I want blood, guts, and angel cake.  
> I'm gonna puke it anyways.

Ryouko ikusaba was a dead girl walking; red hair and bite marks, one blue eye and one red. An oddity; she had always been a misfit, even with her own twin.

Mukuro had red hair like her own, but instead of long and flowing, matting in some places, it was straight and short. It wasn't as short as it could be, coming to about her shoulders, but compared to ryoukos tangles locks, it was hardly any. Not only that, but her eyes were so different from her miss matched ones, a cool silver with only a tint of blue, like blush. It was as if she saw the world in monochrome with those eyes, and ryouko was stuck with half of the blue, blue sky burning.

Their personalities didn't match each other at all, either, more of a disjointed comedy rotinue than family. Ryouko didn't know how to act, most of the time, sitting in silence as her sister does all the talking. Mukuro was outspoken, loud, compared to her, standing up to their parents when ryouko just faded into the background, forgotten.

She didn't really know if it bothered her. She didn't think it did, but the hallow feeling in her disagreed. She wondered if she wanted attention. 

She was probably just bored.

It was boring, after all. Dreadfully boring, happening just like she predicted, in this dull routine. It didn't really feel like a home, but then again, nowhere did.

She heard somewhere that home was where the heart was. She wondered if that was the problem; if she was just so empty she didn't have a heart.

 

 

Mukuro is fighting with their parents again. She didn't really contribute much, just watching in the background as her sister screamed up at them, before a smack resounded yet again. Normally it stopped with that, but it seems today that wasn't so, and mukuro continued to fight back. Ryouko didn't really understand it much, nor did she care about the understanding it, only feeling vague worry, but when her ears picked up _social workers,_ and _leaving,_ she paused. Mukuro came to her, stomping up the stairs after a bit of silence. 

"We're going," she said, pulling on ryoukos arms, causing her to drop her teddy bear. Before she can reach to grab it, mukuro tugs her along, urgency in her movements.

"Where are we going?" She asks, but she knows mukuro probably is just winging it, finally fed up. Just like predicted, she pauses for a second, before continuing, more determined than before.

"Anywhere but here."

 

 

It turns out _anywhere but here_ means the streets. She doesn't really mind, only curling up tighter against mukuro's form for warmth. It's nighttime, now, and though it took some effort, mukuro had managed to empty out a garbage bin, the kind right behind restaurants, and smell of grease and filth. She hopes that the garbage truck doesn't come with them in it, scooping them up like they're something to be desposed of. Maybe they were.

It stunk, still. She couldn't sleep, even when mukuro was storing ever so softly.

In her sisters embrace, ryouko realized something.

She was bland, just as boring as this world, pathetic and weak, only being dragged along. She didn't want this—didn't want to sleep in a dumpster, just going with what her sister says. She wanted to be interesting, she wanted to be in control.

More than that, she wanted to feel something.

 

Sometimes, they go back and forth from shelter to shelter. It's humid, and crowded, but there's food and water there. Mukuro says that it's better this way, until they get enough money to get an apartment. Ryouko isnt to sure about that, doubtful that anyone would even let them rent one. They were still minors, after all.

More than likely, they'd get cornered by social workers. As of now, they've been able to lie themselves out of anything— _our parents are coming later, they're just bringing our stuff_ —but she knows that won't last forever. Attempting to buy an apartment would only speed up the process. Still, she bites her tongue, possibly out of habit. She's been quite for years, after all. 

She doesn't really like herself. She wishes she was more like mukuro, in a way, more out going. Maybe that's why when she finds a bleach kit, busted up, but mostly ok, she saves it. Maybe that's why, in the humidity of a center that could never be anyone's home, she asks mukuro if she could use it on her.

Its not pretty. It's uneven, and blotchy. Bits are still red, when it's over, others to light. Some of her hair is frazzled, and she neck hurts from cranking her neck in the sink, letting mukuro wash it out in their pathetic public bathroom. She's sure some people stared at them. 

Still, though, some of the patches are not quite blonde or red. They're more of a pinkish, strawberry color. She likes it. It maybe be chaotic, and even ugly, but some of it was beautiful. And more than anything, it wasn't her.

Ryouko wasn't a blonde, but a red head—more than that, she was a dead girl walking.

Junko, on the other hand, was a goddess.

 

 

Like she predicted, social workers interfer with their life. She doesn't know if she's sad or happy about that, the rush she got when looking at her sisters despairing face so foreign. They finally got enough money to start their life again, and yet fate drove them apart. It was ironic. It was horrible. It was delicious. Was this what their parents were trying to show them, all along? She didn't know, but she couldn't stop smiling, even when tears rolled down her face.

Maybe ryouko was sad, but junko was happy.

 

Ryouko dies.

 

 

Junko does more than ryouko ever could, is her complete opposite, almost. It's junko, it's all junko—junko's the one building up castles just to destroy them.

She mets him at one of her foster houses, this one looks like they're thinking about adopting her, but she doesnt really care. The man there's gross, alcohol on his break and hands on her wrists, but it does nothing more than drive her deeper into despair. She thinks she loves despair, now, a drug that she couldn't get enough of, even if it was destroying her.

His name is mastuda—it rolls off her her tounge like a breath, like a laugh— _pupupupu, don't tell me you're falling?_ —and she found herself gravitating to him. She almost feels happy, or content.

It's almost pathetic.

They spend days on the beach, building castles into the sand and writing love notes to be washed away by the ocean. He pressed quick kisses onto her lips, and presses sea shells into her hands. Everything else is gross, except for him and the beach.

Eventually, he invites her over, his mom holding orange slices, a tv playing the children shows she never watched. It feels more like a home than anything she's ever come across.

They spend hours drawing with crayons, giggling at the tv and stuffing snacks into their mouths with grubby hands. By the end of the day, she has a picture of a companion, black and white like her, a teddy bear. She names him monokuma, and he laughs lightly at her and the name, as she pouts.

She almost feels like a normal girl, the innocence of a childhood boyfriend burning into her. 

But then the crying image of her sisters face appears in her mind, or the hands of someone meant to protect echos on her skin like a phantom pain, and she grins as she tramples her castle, her skinned knees rubbing harshly on the sand, bleeding.

When his mom gets sick, machines beeping loudly in a room of white, she tears the the wires apart as if they were all she hated in the world. When the sound of a flatline echos in her ears—hurry, the doctors are coming—she puts the cords like they were before as if nothing has happened.

She always hated orange slices.

 

 

 

When mukuro and her met again, she hardly recognizes her. Her hair is shorter, died black as red stands out. Her eyes look dull, grey instead of silver, freckles appearing more prominently from her time in the outdoors, fighting. She doesn't smile, not that sharp tooth smile, or that small one she gave to reassure her it would all be ok. She was stone.

That was fine. She was different, too. Better. Her hair donned two pigtails, eyes sparkling with something a bit deranged. She smiled all the time, lively where she was dull, interesting. Her hair was no longer red, or a patchwork, but a concisive strawberry blonde. She was a model, too, now, nails painted red and a blue contact in. She was beautiful, but not ryouko. 

She wasn't her sister, not the one she watched over, street rats sticking together like glue.

Mukuro almost feels guilty.

The war has changed them, both of them. They may have been fighting different wars, but it was obvious it had an affect on both of them. Junko looked like hell on wheels, looked like everything was right in the world, make powdered on so thick you could never see her true face. Mukuro was a open book, flinching without flinching, expression always netrual, on the outside.

Neither of them ever really cried.

Junko insults her, just like their parents did way back then. Unlike them, though, junko doesn't only do that—she's not an idiot, far from it, she knows that if you're only mean to someone they'd never stay. She is nice, and present, sometimes, apologizing the day after lashing out without really meaning it. Mukuro thinks she understands her, and to some extent she does—despair is happiness, despair is what filled the void in her chest, despair is her home—but a part of junko is just bitter. How dare she leave her? How dare she leave her, a goddess walking? How dare she be so incompedent to get herself taken away from her, how dare she not care enough to try to stay in contact? How dare she go fight a war without even telling her? It's disgusting. It's pathetic. The both of them.

But she could never really hate her sister. She loves her, her big sister, her sister who is so useless and ugly, compared to her. Mukuro doesn't deserve her love, she muses, but she has it anyway—so junko makes her despair. 

It hurts seeing her sister flinch from her, do everything she says as if she doesn't have a spin. That's why junko does it.

But sometimes, sometimes, in the quieter moments where she is kind, she almost questions if what she's doing is wrong. A ridiculous thought, of course, but the ryouko in her bubbles up those times, watching flowers sway in the wind, or reading books with mukuro by her side.

She squashes it down. She's not ryouko; not a pathetic little girl trying to just feel something.

She is junko enoshima.

There is no higher thing she could be.

 

 

Still, though, ironically—despairingly, she thinks controversially—to rid herself of ryouko, she has to become her once again. It's paradoxical thinking, a logic circle, but she doesn't care, as long as it gets her what she wants in the end.

There is one thing she will not sink too, though— _ikusaba_. The name burns in her mouth, so repulsivly pathetic, recking of mukuro and other walking corpses like her. Junko, even if she was to become ryouko again, refused to be a dead girl walking once more.

 

Otonashi.

Silence. Tenderhearted. Docile.

Nothing.

Its perfect—junko could laugh, really. It's just to perfect.

So, then. Ryouko Otonashi it is.

Refreshing nothingness.

How boring.

She really could laugh.

 

 

 

Ryouko otonashi knows nothing of the world, but she is content. She knows she's not normal, she forgets things with in minutes, but she doesn't mind. Maybe it was boring, or repetitive, but she wouldn't know. She didn't remember, after all, and everytime she relearned a fact it was just as new and exciting as the first time. She is happy with this, she thinks. It's a little scary, she's a little uncertain, but she has a constant in her life; without fail, every single time she remembers a thing called love, a name seared into her mind, branding her.

Matsuda. 

It was a beautiful name; matsu meaning to pine, or wait. So similar to the verb matsuru; to perform religious ceremonies. 

For a second, she wonders who he worships.

The image of a strawberry blonde grins down at her, before she blinks it away.

 

 

"Don't you wonder about your family?" He asks, one day, and she considers it.

"Not really," she says, "you're my family, matsuda!"

He sighs, annoyance lacing his face, a bit of fondness the seams.

She almost wants to add, _I'm not sure I want to know, anyways._

She holds her tongue.

 

 

 

When it's all said and done, junko emerges once again, spitting in her childhoods friends face, just to see him despair. He always made her want to hope, after all, so it was imperative she drowned his light, drove him down into the ground, all the while gripping his hand like she didn't want to let go.

It's all over, now. She's to tired to laugh, or cry.

Mukuro is in back of her, shaking a bit. She takes the bleach junko ordered her to get, and stripped her hair of red—the strawberry blonde of a goddess returning. Junko feels thankful, but in a different way than she would have as ryouko. 

And so she plans her own sisters murder, spears piercing mukuros body as she convulsed, betrayal widening her eyes, tears leaking down even as she pretended to smiled, pretended to be who she used to be, lost in the act. Or maybe she smiles because she knows, she knows that junko is killing her. Mukuro wonders what junko feels, in that moment, and for a brief moment junko wonders what she feels, too.

 

Junko thinks is how despairing it would be, if her hair grew out to long, red roots contrasting a sickening strawberry pink, now that she's not here to bleach it, and all she can do is laugh until she cries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ryouko dies when matsuda does, her knife in his stomach. She dies with her childhood boyfriend, kisses and sea shells being swept up by the wind.

Junko dies with a smile on her face, the whole world watching.

She dies alone.

**Author's Note:**

> "Junko is scary because she doesn't have a real motive besides despair," kodaka says  
> "Junko doesn't have a tragic past or anything," kodaka says
> 
> WELL YOUR OWN STORY CONTRIDICTS WITH THAT KODAKA
> 
> YOU CANONLY MADE IT SO MUKURO AND JUNKO WERE HOMELESS
> 
> YOU EVEN HAD JUNKO SAY AT ONE POINT THAT THE ONLY GUYS INTERESTED ARE "GROSS"
> 
> WHATS THE FUCKS UP WITH THAT 
> 
> NOT TO MENTION UHHH ALL OF DR0??????
> 
> GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER KODAKA
> 
>  
> 
> Anyways I both love and hate junko with all my heart and I will never be over dr0 or mukuro who honestly deserves a goddamn award for putting up with Junkos bullshit


End file.
